


Second Chance

by LiveAndLetLive



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Ghost Sherlock, Halloween, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lonely John, M/M, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:20:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveAndLetLive/pseuds/LiveAndLetLive
Summary: His eyes are wide and fixed to the mug, needing just one more confirmation that he’d finally lost it.John was certain he had when he felt a pair of freezing lips against his ear.“Boo.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	Second Chance

John Watson. Former British Army doctor. And if on occasion his RAMC mug moved on its own, John certainly didn’t think about it.

The bedsit was four walls and a window, but there was nothing to look at outside. He never opened the curtain, not even to check on the weather. He didn’t yet have a job, living off of his army pension until he finds the will to look for one.

He was just existing in this grey, empty box for no discernible reason. It’s understandable when his eyes sometimes shift towards his gun as they are doing now. The scrape of clay against wood startles his gaze to shift towards his mug, instead.

It’s moved again.

John just blames it on his sanity peeling away, expected of a soldier who’s spent too much time in war. Maybe if he allows his eyes to linger on it, he’ll catch it in the act and speed along his journey to madness.

When John watches it move a third time, something still very much alive within him springs him up from his bed, knocking over his walking cane. His eyes are wide and fixed to the mug, needing just one more confirmation that he’d finally lost it.

John was certain he had when he felt a pair of freezing lips against his ear.

“Boo.”

John leaps away and to his gun, snatching it up from its place on the desk, and spins back around to find a man lying languorously on his bed. He would have thought it an intruder had its hair not blown about its ears in the stillness of the room and its skin look as pale as that of a corpse.

This was but an impression of a man. It wore a suit, one sleeve rolled up and held there by a tourniquet, and was clearly very pleased with itself.

“This is getting boring now.” It barely opens its eyes, unimpressed by John’s display. “Say something. Scream.”

John backs away, his gun gripped uselessly in his hand, and is shocked to find a deadly calmness he hadn’t felt since running headfirst into a firing line.

It sighs at him. “One moment, please.” It mutters before it stands up from the bed, walks to the window, and shifts the curtain aside to look at the street below. John can’t stop staring, even when the intense gaze of its eyes turn back to his.

“If I were a mere hallucination,” It began, arms folded neatly behind its back and speaking rapidly. “how could you possibly know from where you're standing that in a short while, a child’s football will hit the window?” Its sentence was punctuated by a dull thud against the window and shocked gasps.

"People are stupid, certainly not capable of predicting the future." It gave John a tight smile.

Alright, maybe it was real. John hated it, whatever it was. Perhaps he wasn’t mad and there really was a, dare he say it, ghost in his room. John felt the ache of loneliness ease in his chest, thus confirming he was definitely insane.

“What’s…” He found himself asking, clearing his throat and shifting closer to it. “What’s your name?”

Sherlock smirks and steps forward, holding out his hand. “Sherlock Holmes. Dead.”

John stares at it, before making his decision and reaching for the hand offered. His hand goes straight through it.

“Damn.” Sherlock mutters to himself.

“John Watson.” He greets anyway, lowering his arm.

“I know. I saw your blog.” Sherlock clarifies, pointing at the open laptop screen. It wasn’t much of a blog: more of a record of what, when and where he eats- if at all.

“How long have you been watching me?” John questions, a little annoyed if anything.

“Long enough to watch you stare longingly at your gun.” Sherlock replies, narrowing his eyes at John.

John finally looks away.

“Did you die in here?”

“You ask too many of the wrong questions. I thought you were quieter than this.” Sherlock replies, getting back onto John’s bed and closing his eyes.

Laughter outside draws John’s eye momentarily towards the window, but when it flits back, Sherlock is gone.

-

John’s at the pub, again trying to convince himself of what had transpired yesterday. He simply couldn't have invented Sherlock in his own mind: he had never met someone like this before, yet alone see reflections of Sherlock in his own head. It’s hardly his fault he causes a scene when Sherlock suddenly pops up on the stool next to him.

“Christ!” John gasps, trying to keep his balance with the support of only one good leg.

“I have yet to meet him. Lager for me, please.” Sherlock says, annoyingly monotone.

When John comes back to himself, it’s to people staring at him, concerned for their own safety. They can’t see Sherlock, then.

“Is it possible to arrange for an exorcism? Asking for a friend.” John says quietly into his glass at hearing the conversation of the room resume.

“I’m here to experiment.” Sherlock declares. “Do I look translucent to you, or opaque?”

John leaves money on the table in reply, slides off his stool, and heads towards the door.

“Forgot something.” Sherlock reminds him, and John can’t bring himself to be angry as he picks up the forgotten walking cane.

Sherlock silently follows him all the way back to the bed sit, always just inside John’s peripheral vision. The first thing John does when he gets in is type “Sherlock Holmes” into Google.

John is reassured that he didn’t make him up, the newspaper photos aligning to what he currently sees over his shoulder, but is weary to the fact that there is nothing about the man’s death.

"They haven't found my body yet, then. It's a wonder Scotland Yard get anything done." Sherlock mutters, the roll of eyes clear in his tone.

John tries not to jump at the unfamiliarity of another voice.

“You’ll have to tell them.” Sherlock says, standing up and away from John. “Lestrade w-“

Silence.

John looks over his shoulder.

Sherlock’s gone again.

-

John’s lying in bed, waiting for something he didn’t allow himself to acknowledge, when Sherlock pops up again.

“Sorry about that. Still trying to figure that out.” Sherlock mutters, leaning against a wall and folding his arms in contemplation.

“How come… you can touch things but we couldn’t shake hands?” John asks, giving in to his curiosity. Every time he speaks to Sherlock, he tries to ignore the fact that, to an outside ear, he appears to be talking to himself.

Sherlock shrugs impatiently, clearly not too keen on admitting to his own lack of understanding. “It exhausts me, after a while.”

John gets out of bed, enjoying the newfound strength in his leg, and reaches out his hand to Sherlock. Sherlock looks startled for a moment before reaching out, himself.

Their fingertips touch and Sherlock feels warmer than his lips had when they first met. John tries not to blush at that. He slides his hand closer until their fingers interlock, and only when Sherlock squeezes his hand does John realise what he’s doing.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Sherlock quickly assures, looking slightly nervous as they draw their hands away from each other.

“You’re actually real, then?” John says, stepping backwards.

“As I’ve proved countless times.” Sherlock murmurs, looking up to the heavens. “Get Lestrade.”

“Who?”

“A detective at Scotland Yard.” Sherlock holds out his hand again. “Give me your phone.”

John passes it over but it falls through Sherlock’s hand and clatters to the floor.

“For God’s sake!” He grunts through gritted teeth.

“Here.” John grunts as he bends over to pick it up. “It’s fine. What’s the number?”

John dials the number recited, the phone ringing out.

“What do I say?”

“Just repeat after me.”

The phone stops ringing and John can hear the busy sounds of an office.

“Who’s this?” A man asks tiredly.

“John Watson. Um…” John looks over at Sherlock for help.

“I know where Sherlock’s body is.” Sherlock says, waiting for John to repeat it into the phone.

John immediately hangs up and rubs his palm against his forehead.

“Alright, well maybe that wasn’t the most sensible idea.” Sherlock reluctantly admits. When John recovers enough from his exasperation, he looks up to find him gone.

-

Eventually, Scotland Yard finds his body. He and Sherlock are sat watching the news together about it, and Sherlock is the quietest he’s been since he first popped up.

“You alright?” John asks, keeping his eyes on the screen.

Sherlock hums. Hearing nothing in the noise, John turns to look for something in Sherlock’s face. Quite a beautiful one at that. John can’t quite stem the thoughts quick enough, the last one he acknowledges being his disbelief of Sherlock’s eyes. He finds himself feeling quite upset at the prospect that only he could be witness to this man.

“How did you die?”

Sherlock turns his head sharply towards John, the hair that was blowing softly around his face now shifting more forcefully, as if manipulated by hurricane. John wasn’t scared.

"A slight chemical miscalculation." Sherlock mumbles when the sporadic movement of his hair dies down. He looks down at the crook of his own arm.

“No.” John frowns, not at all convinced. “You’re too smart for a mistake like that.”

Sherlock’s eyes move back to John’s and then to John’s gun, where they remain.

“So are you.”

John follows Sherlock’s gaze and knows without turning back that he’s gone again.

-

“Go.” John mutters, starting the timer on his phone.

Sherlock snatches up the apple and stares at it for a while and John raises an eyebrow. It’s been a week since they’ve been acquainted, and John can’t stop thinking about it. He and Sherlock Holmes, existing together.

The apple eventually falls through his hand. John stops the timer at the thud and reads out the result. “Nineteen seconds. Three seconds longer than yesterday. You did well.”

“Oh, don’t patronise me.” Sherlock grumbles.

“I reckon you’re sticking around for longer, too.” John adds.

Sherlock hums in agreement. “Something’s keeping me here.”

-

“John, I need a case.” Sherlock says, pacing restlessly. “Will you help?”

John startles a bit at the sudden request, partly because Sherlock rarely requires anything from John and mostly because he’s just popped up out of nowhere with little warning. “How?”

“You’ll be my body.”

John doesn’t even waste the energy to look at him. “You’re not bloody possessing me.”

“Of course, I’m not. I have yet to find out the logistics or if it’s even possible.” Sherlock replies, aggravated every time John’s mental capabilities lag behind his own.

“It definitely isn’t.”

“So will you?”

He obviously will, but it’s more fun to stretch it out and make Sherlock wait. He makes a show of sighing and scratching his head until he hears an impatient throat clear. “I suppose-“

“Perfect.” Sherlock says, allowing a smile to broaden on his face. John tries to stop himself smiling at the sight. “If any questions were to arise, “you were an old friend of mine”.”

John’s just now caught up with what’s transpiring, and he hates how ready he is to do anything for Sherlock; he feels like a puppy jumping excitedly around the man’s ankles.

“I can’t just waltz in there.” John frowns. “What if you bugger off in the middle of the investigation, or whatever?”

“I’ll stay away for a few days- get my strength up, so to speak.” Sherlock replies, carefully not looking at John.

“Right.” John replies, trying desperately not to show anything in his face. It doesn’t matter: when Sherlock does look, he sees it all, anyway.

-

“But how?” Lestrade frowns, quite familiar with his own exasperation.

John stays still, feigning deep thought, whilst he watches Sherlock dramatically twirl and smile up at the ceiling, muttering his praises as he does so. This was their seventh case together and both had yet to figure out how to function as if this was the doing of just one man. John had picked up a few tactics -squinting his eyes as if considering possibilities or muttering nonsense to himself- but Sherlock was off the rails and unabashed in his childlike glee. Greg was looking expectantly for John to elaborate.

“Oh uh… just amazed at how clever it is.” John lies, before speaking to Sherlock’s general vicinity. “Sorry if I’m being a twat.”

Greg frowns again, getting a bit impatient with the strange antics of the man. Sherlock seems to remember himself and quickly passes on his deductions to John, who then shares them with Greg.

Sherlock certainly hadn’t forgotten the remark and decides to retaliate whilst John natters about something or other with Lestrade. He strides over and kisses John’s cheek, making sure to linger in his personal space and listen to him stammer.

He then stands away from John, to admire his reddening face. And when they walk away from the crime scene and John swears at him under his breath, Sherlock might as well have been skipping home.

-

They’re lying on John’s bed. Well, Sherlock is, but he’s resting his head on John’s lap. It took a while for them to manage this, but Sherlock had grown stronger since their meeting and he took full advantage of this newfound strength.

John had his head tipped back against the wall and was pulling at curls until they sprang away again. He thinks what he feels is love.

They were happy.

He was John’s.

John was his.

They were both each other’s chance to live again.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!


End file.
